Take Me Away
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: Kurt WAS in his right mind. It wasn't his fault that everyone else was judging him, just like they always did. He was just... making adjustments. Expect the Unexpected.
1. In Which Kurt Lectures Neanderthals

**A/N: So, this is part of the _Expect The Unexpected_ series I'm working on, which is, frankly, exactly what it sounds like. As part of my everlasting quest to defy any and all possible cliches, something completely unfathomable occurs with one member of the Glee club in each fic of the series. The goal? To have each character (even Matt and Mike, poor underfed pups) so far out of their league, but still remain in character. This is installment number three, but none of them are connected plot-wise, so there aren't any prequels you have to read for any of them. Some will be tragic, some scary, some mysterious, some humorous. Enough jabber - please enjoy!

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_Take Me Away_**  
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The first thing that registered in Azimio's mind was that he had a splitting headache, and the light that was beating through his eyelids was _way_ too bright to be the morning sun. At least his alarm wasn't ringing. He figured that this had to be one of the worst hangovers he'd ever had, especially after he factored in that he couldn't remember getting drunk.

Cracking his eyes open and squinting in the blinding light, he shifted and realized that he was sitting on a wooden chair rather than lying in his bed. Confused, he tried to stand up, but his limbs refused to move. Attempting to suppress the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was wrong, he once again tried to stand, and this time he felt the distinct chafing of cloth wound far too tightly around his wrists and ankles. The shock began to settle in as soon as his tongue pressed against another rope of cloth tied through his teeth. A gag. Was this actually happening?

Turning his head (his neck was uncomfortably stiff, and it made him wince), he was able to make out four more silhouettes of slumped figures, all tied up and gagged just as he was. He let out a muffled yell through the gag; three of them lifted their heads in his direction. As his retinas slowly adjusted to the light, his eyes widened when he recognized Santana Lopez sitting furthest from him, her face frozen in an expression that made his stomach leap in his gut. She was _scared._ Santana Lopez was _never _scared. His stomach rolled again as he saw Dave Karofsky, his best friend, his fellow jock, his comrade-in-arms sitting in the chair closest to him, his chin still slumped into his chest. He was the only one yet to come to. Azimio forced himself to look away to see who the other two were. Finn Hudson. Noah Puckerman.

Shit.

Puck never looked scared either. This was _bad_.

The five of them were arranged in a semi-circle on a black floor, perfectly symmetrical, and it wasn't until then that Azimio realized that the white light was coming from a specific source – a spotlight?

Were they on a _stage_?

As soon as Azimio figured out that they were in the WMHS auditorium, he felt a small wave of hope. He'd never felt relieved to be at school, but schools were public places, and public places had people.

The hopeful feeling vanished the moment he remembered it was Sunday and his parents wouldn't notice his absence, because he was never there on Sundays. Sundays were days for him and Karofsky to plan out their fresh and oh-so-original attacks on the less popular kids at school. He'd gotten in trouble for his bullying before, with Schuester, with Figgins, and praise from Coach Sylvester aside, he'd always expected it. Karofsky was the dumb one who was surprised when he got detention for giving a kid a swirlie. This, however, whatever it was, was a punishment that had not been foreseen.

Azimio didn't know how long they sat there, unable to move or speak, before Karofsky groaned beside him, his head rolling back on his shoulders as he slowly came around.

Almost immediately after Karofsky awoke, a voice echoed over the auditorium, amplified through the speakers. "Mr. Karofsky, how kind of you to join us," it said. "I'd like to take a moment to thank you all for coming. It's going to be a great show."

Azimio's stomach did yet another flip. What kind of sick joke was this?

A machine clanked somewhere, and the spotlight mercifully dimmed, allowing them to see all the way up to the back of the room. When the spots dancing in front of Azimio's eyes subsided, he was able to see someone sitting casually at the desk where Mr. Schuester sat during Glee rehearsals. The person reached forward and spoke into the microphone again.

"Do you like the venue? I'll admit it's a bit shabby, but I thought it was quite fitting for the circumstances."

Azimio frowned. He recognized that voice. It was high-pitched and smooth, but unquestionably male.

The kid pressed a couple of buttons on the lighting board, and the spotlight shut off, the lights hanging directly above them showering them with blue and purple. "I've found that perfect lighting is essential to any performance," he said before circling around the table and striding down the aisle towards the stage. Azimio didn't know much about him, but he knew that he definitely didn't normally walk like that. Whenever he saw the kid in the halls, whether he was dressed in his normal Gucci and Gabbana or his ridiculous silver Gaga outfit, he walked almost like a robot, with his back held straight and his head held high, unwilling to show anyone that his shoulder still hurt like hell from being shoved into the lockers that morning. Now, he was relaxed and moving with a catlike grace that scared Azimio shitless. Kurt Hummel had been shoved one time too many.

The five of them watched silently as Kurt stepped up onto the stage, the blue and purple lighting turning his skin an odd color. Azimio thought nothing of what he wore, other than it was pretty toned down compared to his usual wardrobe, but Finn, Puck, and Santana all recognized his costume from Sectionals, even though the red necktie was turned a deep violet by the stage lights. They held their breaths as Kurt began to pace, thoughtful rather than impatient, one hand on his hip and the other stroking his chin as he studied them.

"Lighting is important," he said as he stepped towards Santana, talking as if he were giving a lecture to lesser knowledgeable drama students rather than kidnapping victims. "Planning, props, staging – they're all vital," he continued, reaching over and pulling Santana's hair out of her ponytail, acting like the gesture was the most natural thing in the world. He leaned forward, rearranging her dark hair so that it spilled attractively over her shoulders, like a painter making sure his model looked right. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend that she was somewhere else.

"But," Kurt started again, stepping back to see how she looked. "To be a truly great performer, the build-up is key." He circled around as he spoke, stopping briefly at each chair to make sure the bonds were properly tied and would hold. "Allowing the tension to grow and climax until the audience is waiting on baited breath for your next word, captivated by your every move." He resumed his stance in the center of the stage, facing them, smiling. "And _that_, my friends, is how we kill in theater. Although, today, I decided I'm taking that phrase much more literally."

The five hostages' eyes simultaneously widened and Puck tried to thrash against the ropes holding him, as Kurt clapped his hands together, striding with purpose over to a large tool chest sitting on the floor near the edge of the curtain. He dragged it into the center of the floor, and Azimio couldn't help but notice that even though the thing was clearly very heavy, Kurt didn't seem to be putting any effort into moving it. His heart rate escalated when he realized that the kid was much, much stronger than he looked.

Kurt planted one foot on top of the chest, leaning his elbow against his thigh. "You want to know one of the advantages of being a mechanic's son?" he asked, tapping his foot against the lid and letting the sound of his leather sole hitting the plastic resonate for a moment. "You _really_ know how to use the power tools."

This time, Puck, Finn, and Karofsky all jerked desperately at their ropes.

"Oh, rel_ax_, will you?" Kurt snapped. "We're not going to get to that for a few minutes."

All five pairs of eyes looked to each other in confusion and terror. Kurt smiled airily, composure retained as he said, "First, I know that one or two of you may be wondering why it is that you're here. Well, frankly, it's because we've seemed to have…communication problems in the past. And now, we're going to straighten that out."

More silent confusion. Azimio was afraid to theorize about just what Kurt meant by 'communication'.

"Finn."

Finn's head snapped up, startled by the direct address and afraid of what might come of it.

Kurt inspected his nails. "Glee has taught me over the last few months that one of the best ways to really communicate what you need to say is through music. So, I've come up with a little number just for you, though it could work for the others as well." He looked around to each of them. "I want you _all _to pay close attention. Otherwise…" he trailed off, lightly kicking the tool chest for emphasis. Santana whimpered on the other side of the stage, and Kurt's gaze whipped in her direction, distracted.

"Oh, honestly, Santana," Kurt sighed, rolling his eyes at her frightened tears. "You cry over anything that doesn't go your way. Time to wake up and realize that you can't always be the one in control, darling. Now stop crying and listen."

He cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth turning up as his eyes fell upon Finn again, his head cocking to the side as he rhythmically recited, "_Remember when you ran away, and I got on my knees and begged you not to leave because I'd go berserk? Well, you left me anyway and then the days got worse and worse, and now you see, I've gone completely out of my mind!_"

A bead of sweat rolled down Finn's temple as the gravity of what Kurt was singing/chanting about began to sink in.

Kurt's voice gradually rose in pitch as the chorus progressed. "_They're coming to take me away, ha-ha! They're coming to take me away, ho-ho! Hee-hee! Ha-ha! To the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time! And I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats, and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!_"

He paused for breath before beginning the second verse, a gleam in his eye as he relished in the fear radiating from his hostages. "_You thought it was a joke and so you laughed – you _laughed_ when I had said that losing you would make me flip my lid! Right?_" To punctuate the last word, he slammed the foot that had been resting on the tool chest onto the floor, creating a loud smacking sound that probably sounded a lot more violent than it would have in any other circumstance. Then, he turned his attention to Azimio and Karofsky, chanting, "_I know you laughed – I _heard_ you laugh! You laughed, you laughed and laughed and then you left, but now you know I'm utterly mad!_"

He looked back to Finn, who shrank in his seat and somehow managed to appear smaller than Kurt. "_I cooked your food, I cleaned your house, and this is how you pay me back for all my kind, unselfish, loving deeds? HUH?_"

With the next line, there was no doubt that he was addressing all five of them, his volume growing louder with every syllable. "_Well, you just wait – they'll find you yet! And when they do, they'll put you in the ASPCA, you mangy MUTTS!_"

For the first time since Azimio had woken up, Kurt looked angry. He was livid, his fists balled up at his sides in sheer rage. And just as suddenly as the wrath had appeared, it vanished. He straightened up, flipped his hair back, took a breath, smiled, and relaxed. "Well?" he said smoothly, his voice returned to its normal pitch and volume. "Did I communicate sufficiently?"

Not one out of five responded, and Kurt apparently hated that. He practically lunged toward Finn, grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Say _yes_…" He forced Finn's head back and forth in a nod. "Or _no…_" Side to side. Let go. "_Well?_" He leaned down so that he was at eye-level with Finn, bracing his hands against his knees. "Answer. Me."

Azimio thought he could see tears in Finn's eyes from where he sat, and for once, he did not have the urge to taunt another dude for crying. If he was in Finn's shoes at that second, he would probably break down a little, too. Finn let out a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, nodding fervently.

Kurt smiled. "Good." He straightened back up. "Really, getting anything out of you Neanderthals is like pulling teeth. You'd think it'd be easier considering how _talkative_ you all are."

The emphasis on 'talkative' told Azimio that Kurt was implying something, trying to get them to feel guilty or regret some past act, but Azimio knew that their past taunts of the kid were so flippant and unmemorable that it was impossible to say just which one Kurt was referring to.

Kurt walked back to the tool chest. "Well, at least now that that's out of the way, we can start the fun, hm?"

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**A/N: Please leave a review and tell me what you think of it. I WILL be adding at least one more chapter to it. If you enjoyed it, add me to Author Alert to be notified when the other installments in the series are posted. So far, only Brittany's and Puck's are up - check them out, they're titled Tus Spiritus Sancti and Sun Gone Lost, respectively.**


	2. In Which Jesse Lends A Hand

**A/N: It came out a little shorter than I expected, but here's chapter two.**

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As Kurt casually rummaged through the tool chest, Azimio shut his eyes and sent a silent prayer that they would somehow make it out. Maybe one of the lights would fall and land on Kurt's head, or maybe Sue Sylvester would enter and slice Kurt to ribbons with her acidic wit. Hell, he'd even be ecstatic to see Schuester and his gelled hair at this point.

No such luck.

At the sound of Santana's scream muffled through the gag, Azimio's eyes reflexively opened to see what was wrong, half expecting to see Kurt ripping her to shreds with a power saw. But no, Kurt was still kneeling at the tool chest. Santana was staring at him, scared out of her fucking mind, her gaze frozen at what he was holding.

"Oh, this?" Kurt asked offhandedly, holding up the object. Azimio still couldn't see what it was, but he _could_ see both Puck and Finn turn white when they laid their eyes on it.

Kurt stood up, examining the thing with indifference, flipping it over and back again. "I borrowed this two days ago from our friend Jesse in Vocal Adrenaline," he said. Turning to Karofsky and Azimio, he clarified, "Vocal Adrenaline is New Directions' opponent in the showbiz world. Let's just say that Jesse won't be doing backflips onstage any time soon."

Azimio very nearly vomited into his gag when Kurt delicately held it up for them to see – it was a dismembered hand, the fingers limp and the skin white. A wet, choking sound to his right told Azimio that Karofsky _had_ vomited. As Karofsky coughed and choked and tried to breathe, Kurt sighed, annoyed, and dropped the hand back into the chest, striding over to the jock and deftly untying the gag. Karofsky's upchuck dribbled down his chest and he leaned forward, coughing up the rest that had ended up in his lungs. Kurt rubbed his shoulder.

"That's it, David," he said comfortingly. "Let it all out."

Karofsky's stomach heaved again, and he spit the last of it onto the floor.

"Good boy."

"You sick _fuck_."

"Now, now, David," Kurt said sternly, his eyes darkening. He tossed the vomit-soaked gag aside. "Surely you can come up with a better insult than _that_."

Karofsky gritted his teeth, and Azimio hoped that he wouldn't be so dumb as to rise to the challenge. However, Karofsky was far stupider than Azimio had thought. The second he opened his mouth to throw back whatever he'd thought of, Kurt's hand whipped up, the nose of the screwdriver he'd been holding behind his back disappearing into the back of Karofsky's throat. Kurt's free hand gripped the back of Karfosky's skull while the other twisted and pushed. There was no scream but the one from Santana. Karofsky's eyes bugged out, but he made no noise as his legs twitched ever so slightly, and dark blood turned black in the violet light eventually welled up and trickled in rivulets over his chin.

Santana was still screaming. Azimio, Puck, and Finn all watched, unable to pull their eyes away from what Kurt was doing. Azimio's heart was racing, his breathing labored but rapid, and all he could think was _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. _Was Kurt going to do the same thing to him? To any of them? Or had he planned each of their fates ahead of time? Was he just improvising? Azimio had no idea which was more likely, but they were all equally terrifying prospects.

Finally, Karofsky's legs stopped twitching and his eyes slid shut, and Kurt let go of his head, brushing his hands off. Azimio tried to ignore the fact that the screwdriver was still sticking straight out of Karofsky's wide-open mouth. Grimacing at the flakes that were drifting off of his palms, Kurt shook his head. "Dandruff," he grumbled. "I hate dandruff."

Once his hands were clean-ish, Kurt turned back around, gripped the head of the screwdriver, and gave it one strong tug. Azimio saw Finn squeeze his eyes shut and turn away at the wet _squelch_ that resounded over the stage.

Kurt held up the blood-covered implement for the others to see. "How's _that_ for deep throat?" he joked, laughing at his own genius.

Karofsky's head dropped to his chest as Kurt whipped a rag out of the toolbox and began nonchalantly wiping off the bit. Santana was yelling hysterical words made incoherent by the cloth wound through her teeth, pulling and fighting against her ropes. Kurt dropped the screwdriver back into the chest once it was shiny again, and walked over to her.

"Santana," he said firmly, like a teacher to a student overreacting to a bad grade. "If you keep fighting, you're going to dislocate your shoulder. And I don't think Coach Sylvester would approve of losing her best Cheerio before Nationals." Santana had ceased her struggle and was no longer yelling, but instead full-on sobbing. Kurt lowered himself onto one knee in front of her. "Do you know why this is happening, _mija_?" She flinched and sobbed harder at his use of her mother's nickname for her. "Look. At. Me."

Azimio could see from where he sat that it was a real battle for Santana to do as she was told, but Kurt waited patiently until she was looking him in the eye. "This is happening," he began softly, talking as if he were a parental figure, "because you all need to understand that you can't push people around. You can't bully people, you can't talk to them like you own them, you can't call them faggy."

Kurt didn't have to look at Finn for him to know that the last part was directed at him.

"I've made an exception for Quinn because she's preggo, but trust me, once she pops out that little brat, it's going to be her turn," Kurt informed her. Then, thoughtfully, "You know… Brittany is picking up a lot of bad habits from you. I might have to give her a taste of this if she keeps it up."

The mental picture of Brittany tied up and unable to do anything as Kurt shoved a screwdriver down her esophagus branded itself into Santana's brain, and she screamed at him again and resumed her fight against the bonds. Kurt sighed, rolling his eyes in exasperation, and went to fetch the rag from the toolbox. When he returned to the Latina, he grabbed her under the jaw. "Would you hold still?" he snapped. "You look like a goddamn whore right now." Not letting her move her head, he wiped off the make-up smeared all over her cheeks with the rag and didn't stop until there were no more black tear tracks contrasting with her copper skin. A little bit of Karofsky's blood that had soaked into the rag from the screwdriver streaked across her cheek, close to her mouth, but Kurt didn't bother to clean it off. He stood up. "Ah. Much better."

He went back to digging through the tool chest, leaving the four of them to their heartbeats roaring in their ears. Azimio didn't want to know what else Kurt had in the box, but Kurt had other plans. He pulled out a bulky object and disappeared behind the curtain for a moment before returning with an orange extension cord trailing behind him. Plugging in the tool he held, he flipped a switch, and the mechanical whirring of a sawblade filled the room. It was a handheld power saw, the kind designed to be easily transported.

"So," Kurt said loudly over the metallic whine. "Who's it going to be?"

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**A/N: I've posted Santana's installment for _Expect The Unexpected_. It's titled _La Vida Loca_ - go read it!**


	3. In Which Rachel Becomes Speechless

**A/N: I felt bad about doing such a short chapter last time, so I decided to do another short one in quick succession.

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Will Schuester couldn't believe what he was currently hearing come out of Figgins' mouth. His eyes were wide, his jaw was dropped, and he was sitting in the chair across from Figgins' desk, not moving because he didn't really know what the proper reaction was.

"My kids would _never_ do something like that!" he protested, feeling sick to his stomach.

"William, it's just a routine investigation," Figgins argued. "All of the other teams in the region are being interrogated as well; it's not just McKinley. The police aren't even sure if it had anything to do with the Glee competitions at all – it's just a possibility they're exploring."

"But—"

Figgins cut him off. "That Jesse boy was chopped to pieces, Schue! Completely dismembered and scattered all over the Carmel High campus! They're still looking for one of his hands! The police are going to investigate every single lead they get – they're not going to let it go. This is a major crime! You don't have a choice but to allow your Glee kids to be subjected to the law protocol."

Will took a deep breath and tried to remember that this was just a general turning-over of rocks, not a personal jab at the harmonious club he'd worked so hard to build. He knew for a fact that none of his kids would even _think_ of doing something like what had happened to Jesse, and the thought of it alone made him feel like he was about to throw up. Sure, the boys had nearly gone and ripped Jesse a new one after he egged Rachel, but such a display of psychotic rage was far beyond what any of them were capable of. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and left Figgins' office in a hurry.

As he exited into the hallway, though, he collided hard with Rachel as she was heading in. "Whoa, sorry, Rachel," he said, grabbing her shoulders to keep her from falling over. "You okay?" It was no surprise that Rachel was there in the empty hallways, forty-five minutes before classes started for the day – she always came early to warm up her voice in the auditorium.

At her dazed, sickened expression, Will wondered if she had found out about Jesse's murder. It was bound to be in at least one of the Lima newspapers by now. Her mouth opened as if she were about to say something, then closed again, then opened, and closed and stayed shut. She leaned back against the wall, sinking to the floor.

"Rachel?" Will pressed, kneeling beside her. He was starting to grow _really_ worried about the shell-shocked look on her face. "What's going on?"

She started mumbling something that was hushed and garbled, speaking almost as if she didn't know he was there. The heels of her hands pressed into her eyes, and he caught only one word – "…auditorium…" Her fingers were trembling violently, and she was hyperventilating, her eyes darting back and forth but looking at nothing in particular.

"Rachel? Rachel, look at me," Will urged. Finally, she trained her eyes on his face (and holy _hell_, she looked absolutely petrified). "I'm going to take you to the nurse's office, okay?" Still shaking, she nodded.

Will finally pulled her up to her feet and looped one arm around her waist, leaning down so he could half-drag, half-carry her down the hallway to the Health Office. The nurse had Rachel lie down on the cot as she bustled about, getting water and anti-anxiety pills and a bunch of other stuff that may or may not have helped. Will was about to head off to his own office to prepare for first period when he realized that Rachel had latched onto his hand with a strength worthy of the football jocks.

"Rachel, I have to go," he said gently.

She didn't seem to hear him, staring at the ceiling. He finally realized that this wasn't just a panic attack – he'd helped Tina through her panic attacks often enough to know what one looked like, and this was _not_ a panic attack. This wasn't normal teenage anxiety. Something had to have happened to freak her out this much, and Will wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was.

"Rachel, can you let go of my hand, please?" he pressed. "If you can't tell me what happened, I'm going to go to the auditorium and see for myself."

In truth, Will had had no idea whether or not the auditorium was even related to what was going on with her. It had just been the only word he'd understood from the jumble of syllables she'd strung together, and so was the only thing that popped into his head as a place to start. But apparently it had everything to do with her current state, because she sat bolt upright, grabbing at his jacket, her eyes terrified and pleading. "No!" she cried, far louder than her mumblings. "Don't! Don't go!"

Will jumped at her frantic begging, startled. "Rachel, let go of my hand. Let go."

The nurse rushed back over and smoothed Rachel's hair back. "Come on, darlin', lie down now. You need some rest, and we're gonna get this straightened out for you soon as you let Mr. Schuester go get ready for class. Come on, honey." With some help from the nurse, Will was eventually able to pry his hand away from Rachel's fingers, to which she responded by breaking down into sobs – wracking, gag-reflex-inducing sobs. The nurse wrapped Rachel into a tight, binding embrace, partly to comfort her and partly to keep her from grabbing her Spanish teacher again, and looked to Will. "Mr. Schuester, you can go now. I'll handle it from here. Thank you for bringing her."

"Uh, sure," Will said, swallowing at the sight of Rachel looking so traumatized. Turning, he left the two of them in the Health Office, heading for the auditorium. Whatever had put Rachel into such a paralyzed state, Will was afraid of, but his curiosity and worrisome side got the better of him. After all, he couldn't help his students if he didn't know what was wrong, could he?

The auditorium door was open when he got there, and from a ways down the corridor, Will could see that there was something hanging down in the doorway, swaying slightly. His stomach twisted – he didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't supposed to be there. He gulped when he recognized the setup – the object had been placed over the door so that the first person that opened it would be caught off guard as it swung down and hit them in the face. It was the classic bucket-of-water prank.

As he edged closer, the details of the heavy-looking, round-ish thing began to stand out, and maybe the reason it took so long for Will to recognize it was that he didn't want to, but it didn't really matter, because when he did, he didn't hesitate to drop his briefcase and retch onto the floor. "Oh, _Jesus_," he muttered, wiping his mouth.

Swaying ever so slightly in the auditorium doorway, was the severed head of Finn Hudson, suspended by a bungee cord attached to a screw drilled into the crown of his skull. And tacked to his forehead, a tiny trickle of blood stained brown into the paper, was a note.

_Frankenteen's a tad shorter now.

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**A/N: Okay, so I'm a total sicko. Sue me. Oh, but leave a review first.**_  
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	4. In Which Puck Becomes Extra Musical

**A/N: I'm honestly disturbed by my own mind right now. Please don't yell at me.**

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Tina had been catching a ride to school with Artie and his dad for nearly the entire year, since her parents were hardly ever home to drive her and she'd gotten tired of walking almost two miles five days a week. When they got to school that morning, the parking lot was only somewhat full, mostly staff members' cars, and the few students that had arrived early were milling about outside, enjoying the spring air. While Artie had informed his father when he and Tina had started carpooling that they liked to get there early so that they could rehearse their numbers for Glee before the day really began, it was the tiniest bit of a lie. Their sessions always _started_ as short rehearsals, but usually they ended up as opportunities to make out away from the public eye and away from Mercedes and Kurt's daily lunch commentary that they were about to throw up because the Wheeled-Gothika relationship was too fucking adorable to eat around.

"I have to say," Tina mused aloud as she pushed Artie into the school and headed for the choir room. "I'm kinda missing the champagne-bubble dress."

Artie snorted. "Tee, you may look drop-dead sexy in champagne bubbles, but they make way too much noise when you walk. I keep thinking I'm rolling on gravel."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry to inconvenience you," she retorted with a grin.

"Damn straight. Bow down to the Cripple."

And even though his tone had been one hundred percent joking, with no sign of bitterness whatsoever, Tina smacked him lightly upside the head.

"_Ow!_" he dramatized. "What was that for?"

"I don't like it when you talk like that about yourself, and you know it."

He rolled his eyes. "Pssh. It was just a joke, Tee."

Tina let go of his chair handles for a moment to open the choir room door. "Yeah, well, jokes can be t—_AH!_" She yelped suddenly and stumbled backwards, tripping over her combat boots and landing on her rump.

Artie broke into a light fit of laughter at her comical fall. "I told you those shoes are dangerous, and not just to other people." His laughter faded, however, when he realized that the trip hadn't caused her to fall. Her eyes were wide and staring in through the open door, her hands clamped tightly over her mouth as if she were trying to stop herself from both vomiting and screaming. The humorous atmosphere they'd maintained so far that morning was gone without a trace. "Tee? What's wrong?"

She let out a _long_ breath through her nose, and it seemed like a difficult task to pull air back into her lungs. "I…what…what the _fuck…_" she whispered.

Frowning, Artie grabbed his push rims and wheeled himself forward a couple steps, craning his neck to peer inside the choir room. And when he did, he very nearly jumped out of his chair, which takes a considerable amount of adrenaline when one does not have the use of legs. "Holy _shit_," he breathed, not aware that he was speaking.

In the center of the ceiling was a hook not unlike the kind used to hang up a bike in a garage, and hanging upside down from that hook by a bungee cord round his ankles was none other than a shirtless Noah Puckerman. Something sparkled against his jeans, and Artie realized with a heave of his stomach that tacked into his knees and stretching down to his forehead was a series of six guitar strings. His eyes were dull and half-closed beneath the strings, and the tiny trickles of blood that had welled up beneath the nails went unnoticed as the sheer amount of bodily fluids from his torso drew the attention.

He'd been gutted.

Like a fish.

Like a fucking _pig._

Artie recognized some of the organs lying on the floor below Puck's dangling arms – a heart, a lung, a liver… – but it was mostly just a bloody, reeking mound of entrails not unlike something from a zombie movie. And Puck's chest and abdomen wasn't just cut open – it was _missing_. His ribs had been opened further than was natural, and a thin slat of wood was wedged between them, keeping them spread like the belly of a guitar.

But worst of all, perhaps, was the trail of dried blood smeared across the floor to form loopy, cheery penmanship.

_Sweet Caroline!_

_Hah, hah, hah!_

Artie had no idea of how long they sat there, just _staring_ – because what else was there to do? – before the speakers beeped and Figgins' voice boomed throughout the school.

"_All students, please calmly exit the school premises. This is not a drill – I repeat, this is _not_ a drill. All staff members, proceed to gather in the parking lot. This is not a drill._"

Artie and Tina looked confused on top of terrified. They'd never done a drill that entailed leaving the school premises entirely – just fire and lockdown drills. This was something none of them had rehearsed for, and it scared the living hell out of both of them. "Tee?" Artie managed to tear his gaze away from the gruesome show inside the choir room. "I…I think we should go." His voice trembled violently, but it was enough to pull Tina out of her shock and together they shakily made their way outside.

The teachers were accumulating on the far side of the lot, in the direction they'd have to walk in to go to Tina's house, so they passed by Mr. Schue in their haste to get away from what could turn into something far uglier than what had happened to Puck.

"Artie! Tina!" Mr. Schue called, separating from the growing group and running toward them. "You guys got here early?" he asked breathlessly, stepping in front of Artie's chair. He looked scared_ shitless_, which was not a comforting observation.

They nodded, not quite able to talk for fear of vomiting as the mental picture of Puck's desecrated corpse still loomed large in their minds.

Mr. Schue swallowed. "You…you didn't go to the auditorium, did you?"

Even through the dizzying haze of shock that Artie and Tina were still under, they frowned, surprised. "Wh-why the auditorium?" Tina asked, her old stutter reappearing briefly.

Mr. Schue let out a burst of breath in relief. "Oh, thank God," he said.

"You mean the choir room?" Artie said, still confused.

Schue froze, staring at Artie like he was trying to figure out if the kid was joking or not (because it would be totally natural for Artie to joke about something like this). "What does the choir room have to do with anything?"

A split second after Mr. Schue's question hit Tina's ears, she realized that the inquiry also meant that there was something else _besides_ what had happened to Puck, and she promptly vomited onto the flowerbed by the sidewalk.

Mr. Schue seemed to get this at the same time she did, but his stomach was either stronger or he'd already emptied it. "Oh, God. Is there someone in the choir room?"

Artie nodded, also looking like he was about to throw up. "It's Puck," he choked out.

"Oh, God," Mr. Schue repeated, running his hands through his hair. "Oh, God."

"M-Mr. Schue?" Artie stammered, his voice small. "Why did you ask us about the auditorium?"

Schue froze again (honestly, the man was almost like a squirrel – freezing at any sign of danger), and then looked down, wringing his hands. "Finn."

Artie and Tina said nothing, just stood (or sat, in Artie's case) rooted to the spot, unable to do anything to tame their brains enough to cease imagining Finn as a human guitar.

* * *

**A/N: No, I have never seen Dexter.**


	5. In Which Chicken Soup Fails As A Cure

**A/N: This is an apology in advance for this short filler chap. Next one will be more exciting :)

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**

Mercedes _hated_ being sick. Not only was it extremely uncomfortable to be coughing and blowing your nose all day, but it rendered her unable to go to school, which meant that she was deprived of social contact with anyone besides her cat. And Tito wasn't that great of a conversationalist. She'd called Kurt up that morning to try and convince him to come over after school, but he'd replied with an immediate, "And risk you coughing up your lungs all over my brand new Manolos? No freaking way. Baby-girl, I'm already going to get slushied today; I don't need any more of my designer chic ruined."

So she was alone in her room surrounded by Kleenex with Tito draped over her feet, a bowl of chicken soup in her hands, watching TV and feeling absolutely rotten. And _why_ was _Jersey Shore_ the only thing showing this early in the day? Finally fed up with Snookie's ridiculous accent and deafening gum-smacking, she switched over to the local news (because she'd watch almost anything when she had a headache), and was surprised to see WHMS in the background behind the man giving the report.

"—the bodies of four McKinley High students…"

Her eyes flew open and she scrambled for the remote, turning it up several notches.

The newsman was totally hamming it up, but she was too shocked to care, and her jaw dropped further as the story progressed. "…It's hard to believe that a display of such brutality like this would take place in our quiet town of Lima. Our hearts go out to the families of Finn Hudson, Noah Puckerman, Dave Karofsky, and Marcus Azimio. Back to you, Jan."

Mercedes stared at the screen, stunned into silence by how casually the reporter had listed off the names. She jumped nearly two feet when her cell suddenly blasted Mariah Carey. "Hello?" she answered breathlessly.

"Mercedes? Holy _crap_, you scared us!"

"Mike? What are you talking about?"

The other end crackled with background noise, like Mike was in a crowd. "Jesus, Mercedes, there's cops _all over_ the school – Matt, she's fine! – and nobody'd seen you this morning, we got worried that—"

"I saw on the news," she said. "What the _fuck_ is going on?"

"God, Mercedes, it's awful. Puck and Finn and Azimio and Karofsky are all dead," he said, his words rushed and tumbled together, like he didn't really believe what was going on.

"What _happened?_"

Mike swallowed audibly. "I don't know. It's fucking _sick_, M. Artie and Tina were the ones who found Puck – Matt's taking them home now."

"Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_."

"Mercedes, they…" Mike trailed off, took a breath, and started again. "Karofsky and Azimio, they… they were chopped up."

Mercedes nearly dropped the phone. "…_What?_"

"M-Matt and I had to stop by the locker room this morning, and-and there was – Oh, God – there was blood _everywhere_, and—" He stopped to inhale. "They were packed into lockers."

Mercedes felt sick. Real sick. "What the fuck?" she said again.

"I don't know, M. Whoever did this is fucking _sick_." His voice cracked, _much_ higher than usual.

"And Puck? And Finn?" she asked, trying with all her might to keep her voice level.

"It's not good."

She rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand. "Just…just tell me, Mike."

"It's – it's real gross," he warned, and Mercedes could hear that he was struggling to keep himself from hyperventilating. He gulped loudly. "Uh, R-Rachel went to the auditorium before classes, and uh…Finn's head was hanging in the doorway."

Oh God. She was actually going to be sick.

"And – and Puck was…I don't even know what happened to him… He – he – he was like, gutted or something—" A siren on his end cut over his words, and when it faded out, he _was_ hyperventilating. "_Fuck…_" was all he said.

Yep. Here it came. In the split second before she threw up, Mercedes thanked the nonexistent gods that her mother had had the foresight to place a pot in her bedroom that morning just in case she started feeling nauseous. She had a feeling that her mother thought that the nausea would be for a different reason, however.

Apparently Mike was able to hear her unladylike upchucking on the other end. "M? You okay?"

"Fucking hell," she muttered, avoiding the question. "Where's everyone else?"

"Uh, Matt took Artie and Tina to Artie's house… Brittany's wandering around somewhere with Quinn… I dunno where Kurt and Santana are; I haven't seen them. But I saw Rachel getting into Mr. Schue's car – I guess he's taking her home."

"I talked to Kurt an hour ago, he's fine," Mercedes reassured both Mike and herself. "God, what the _fuck_ is going on?" she said again.

"I don't know, M. You want me to come over?"

Mercedes didn't hesitate in saying yes. She and Mike weren't exactly BFFs, but no way in _hell_ she was going to be alone right now. She couldn't even begin to imagine what Kurt was going through at that moment, considering that he and Finn had been living together for awhile now, but hadn't quite made up since their big blowout. As soon as she thought of him, she dialed his number.

"Mer-Mercedes?" he answered. God, he sounded so scared.

"Kurt, are you alright?"

"He's dead, 'Cedes…" he said, his voice cracking. "Finn's dead…"

"Deep breath, hon," she coached, trying to keep her cool. "Where are you?"

"Um…I'm st-standing on the edge of the lot…" he replied. She recognized that tone from when he'd come to her immediately after Finn had called him the F-word – he was lost, confused, and so, so heartbroken.

"Okay, I need you to do something for me, Kurt," she said, forcing her voice to remain firm. It was Mama Bear time. "You listening?"

He sniffed. "Yes."

"Come over to my house – Mike's coming, too, so we won't be alone. I'll call your dad and tell him where you are."

"Okay," he said, letting out a _long_ breath. "Okay, I'm coming."

* * *

**A/N: Please leave a review.**


	6. In Which Mercedes Is Stylin'

**A/N: I had to climb over like three walls of writer's block while writing this chapter. But hey, it's finished! Enjoy.

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**

Somehow, they had all ended up at Mercedes' house. None of them were quite sure how, but by lunchtime the majority of the remaining Glee club was crammed into Mercedes' bedroom. Only Tina, Artie, Santana, and Rachel were absent. Brittany was curled up, leaning against the foot of Mercedes' bed next to Matt, chewing on her thumbnail. Mike was sitting against the wall next to the TV, and Quinn had managed to drape herself lengthwise over the cushy armchair in the corner, her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen stomach. Kurt lay on the bed next to Mercedes, his head resting on her shoulder as he stared off into space and his fingers entwined with hers. The TV was still tuned to the news, but not a single one of them seemed to be paying it any attention. They were all still mulling over what Matt had told them earlier, something that he'd learned from Artie and Tina when he'd driven them home. After much persuading on Mercedes' part and arguing on Quinn's, Matt had finally revealed what had been scrawled in Puck's blood across the choir room floor. And while the mental picture alone was enough to produce a gag, the realization that came with the message made all of their hearts skip several beats.

It was someone in the Glee club.

Maybe none of them were speaking because they all knew that whoever had removed Finn's head from his shoulders could very well be in the room at that moment, and they were afraid to be heard. They were also afraid to leave.

"You gonna be okay, Kurt?" Mercedes asked softly, her eyes not leaving the television even though she wasn't really watching.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll be fine."

Silence settled over the room once more, broken only by Rod Remington's voice droning on and on.

"_The murders are now thought to be connected to the recent homicide of Carmel High student Jesse St. James, and possibly the disappearance of Lima native Santana Lopez…_"

* * *

School didn't resume until the next week, after the crime scene cleanup teams were able to get the blood out of the locker and choir room floors, and had replaced the auditorium carpets (there had been bloodstains running nearly all the way up the aisle, but what exactly it was from hadn't been disclosed). Now, Mercedes, Kurt, Tina, and Artie sat at their usual lunch table, picking at their meals.

"You're not eating, Kurt?" Mercedes asked, concerned.

Kurt didn't look up from the math homework he was hunched over. "I don't trust the mystery meat," was his flippant response.

Artie and Tina shrugged, going back to their lunches (which did, indeed, look disgusting, but that was beside the point). Mercedes frowned at her male-but-not-really counterpart, worry creasing her brow. Since Finn had died (well, the others too, but he'd been close to Finn) Kurt had been acting strangely. And by strange, she meant that he seemed less concerned with the fact that his almost-step-brother-slash-crush had been beheaded than he should be. She was starting to worry that Kurt was pushing himself into a denial of sorts – so far, he'd had almost no problem with talking about Finn or the fact that he was dead, but maybe he was refusing to believe that he was hurt? Mercedes sighed and went back to eating the mystery meat special.

"I just can't get Puck out of my head," Tina said, anxiously chewing on a carrot stick.

"Me neither," Artie agreed. "I haven't gone near my guitar since it happened; it gives me the creeps."

"Is that honestly all you can talk about now?"

The three of them froze, startled at Kurt's snappish question. He'd slammed his pen down and was glaring at Artie and Tina with a startling flash of anger.

"What the hell, Kurt?" said Artie.

"They're _dead_," Kurt growled. "They're _gone_. Get over it."

This time, Mercedes was the one to say, "What the _hell_?" She was staring back at her best friend, appalled. "What's gotten into you?"

Kurt huffed, shoving his books into his bag. "Nothing. Sorry I disrupted your little wallow-and-mourn session." He stood up and strode briskly out of the cafeteria.

Artie swallowed, staring after him. "M-Mercedes? You…you don't think he…?"

"No," she cut him off. "And if you suggest that again, I will cut you."

* * *

The next day, Kurt approached Mercedes in the hall. "'Cedes? Can I talk to you?"

She placed her binder in her locker and turned to face him. "Sure. What's up?"

"I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted yesterday. It was wrong of me to say those things," he said, leaning against the lockers next to her.

She smiled sadly, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder. "It's okay, Kurt," she assured him. "I know you're just upset that Finn's gone. But we'll make it through this. _You'll_ make it through this."

He reached into his bag. "For the past couple of days, I've been making something for you. A thanks of sorts, for being there." Her eyebrows raised as he pulled an unfamiliar article of clothing out of his shoulder bag. "I had it cut to fit your measurements," he said, unfolding it and holding it out to her.

"_Damn_," Mercedes exclaimed, taking it from him to examine it. It was a leather jacket, a deep olive color, with narrow black braids sewn onto the cuffs and shoulder seams and cut so that it only went halfway down her back. She pulled off the one she was wearing and shrugged it on, turning so that Kurt could see his handiwork. "How do I look?"

"Fabulous, as always," he said. "The brown of the leather compliments your skin tone perfectly. Just as I knew it would."

"And it's fake leather, right?"

He smiled. "Of course."

She hugged him tightly. "You're the best, Kurt," she said.

As the bell rang, she and Kurt said their quick goodbyes and rushed off to their respective classes. Mercedes wore the jacket for the rest of the day, receiving several compliments from some of the more fashion-savvy members of the McKinley student body. By the time Glee rolled around, Mercedes had decided that she'd have to make something for Kurt just so they were even and had begun doodling designs in the notebook she kept around for when such inspiration flared up. As the others slowly filtered into the choir room, Mercedes sat quietly and drew.

To say that Glee practice was weird since Puck and Finn had died and Santana had vanished would be an understatement. With their two male leads gone, Matt, Mike, and Artie had been getting solos more (if it irked Kurt that he'd yet to receive one, he didn't show it), and they were still getting used to it. Rachel hadn't returned to school yet, nor had she been in contact with any of the Gleeks since she'd gotten the gory surprise in the auditorium, and the club lacked her fast-mouthed energy. Not to mention it was difficult to concentrate in the room where Puck had been strung up like a pig in a butcher shop. Still, despite all that Glee provided an hour and a half of relief from boring and/or difficult classes and the constant worry of who exactly had been the one to snap and go power-saw-happy at the expense of five – maybe six – kids.

As she sketched a new design for a stylish cardigan, Mercedes listened to the conversation Matt and Mike were having behind her.

"If you ask me, there is no way Santana's still alive," Matt said, his voice hushed so that Brittany wouldn't hear him.

"I don't know. That girl is _scary_, man. You don't think it was her, do you?" Mike theorized. "I mean, she kinda had a bone to pick with all the guys and then she could've skipped town."

"Nah," Matt shook his head. "She was scary, but she wasn't psychotic."

"She seemed pretty close to me."

"What about Quinn? Pregnancy hormones can do freaky things to a woman."

"And you would know that how?" Mike retorted. "It wasn't Quinn – she wouldn't be able to lift Puck up like that with a stomach the size of Jupiter. This is a dude's work."

"Artie can't stand up, and Kurt doesn't count," Matt argued. "The girls are the only possibilities."

Mike made a noise of agreement, chewing the skin on his lip in thought. "Man, what if this is one of those things where the killer doesn't remember killing anyone? Like some split-personality shit."

"Fuck. Then we're all screwed."

* * *

**A/N: Strangeness. Please review.**

**Oh, and after you review, you should mosey on along to my homegirl It'sTimeToDance's profile and read her Glee stories. She's a much better writer than I am - I'm not even kidding. I'd recommend _Of Indigo Sweaters and Unfriendly Cleats_ if you want to bawl your eyes out.  
**


	7. In Which Schue Is Defensive

**A/N: Every murder story has to have an interrogation scene :D Enjoy!

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**

Will sat in the metal chair across from a stone-faced woman in a police officer's uniform. Her mouth was turned down as she sifted through the pages of a folder in front of her. Her name plate glinted in the fluorescent light of the room – _C. Sigurdson._

"What is your position at McKinley High?" she inquired, leaning on her elbows and regarding Will with a level stare.

Will glanced at the tape recorder that was documenting every noise in the room. "Um, I'm a Spanish teacher and coach for the Glee Club. I also run a student-body charity for handicapable kids."

She seemed unimpressed. "And as coach of the Glee Club, you never suspected that one of your students had murderous tendencies?"

"None of them do," he countered immediately.

She pursed her lips and produced from the folder two photographs – one of the note that had been removed from Finn's forehead and one of the message smeared across the choir room floor. "Do these messages mean anything specific to you?" she asked, but Will got the feeling that she already knew the answer.

He swallowed at the image of the loopy calligraphy in blood he knew belonged to Puck. "Uh…" He rubbed his hand over his jaw in agitation. "_Sweet Caroline_ was a solo that Puck sang in the Glee Club."

"Puck?"

"Noah Puckerman."

"Ah. And the other?"

Will frowned at the photographed note paper. "Uh…nothing in particular, no."

"Finn Hudson was six foot four at age sixteen. Am I correct in saying that he was often teased by his friends about his height?"

"Uh, yeah, but it wasn't meant to be cruel; he understood that—"

"And several months ago, your Glee Club hired choreographer Dakota Stanley, but quickly fired him after he ridiculed the members for their various nonconformist qualities?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do—?"

"According to all of your students I've interrogated so far, Mr. Stanley apparently nicknamed Mr. Hudson 'Frankenteen'," she said.

Will stopped, confusion creeping across his face. "You think it was Dakota—?"

"No, Mr. Schuester, my point is that the term 'Frankenteen' is something that only a Glee member would know and understand, as is the '_Sweet Caroline_' reference." She sat back, adjusting her uniform over her bulky frame. "The students in your Glee Club were bullied on a daily basis, correct?"

"Yes, they were."

"So it's not entirely implausible to think one of them may have snapped?" she suggested. "To get back at those who hurt them?"

"Look, none of my kids would _ever_—"

"Answer the question, please, Mr. Schuester."

Will sighed, running his hands through his hair in agitation. "No, I suppose not," he finally said. "But listen, _none_ of them would go this far."

"Mr. Schuester," she said, her tone almost warning. "You must understand that all the evidence points to your Glee Club. All four of the McKinley victims had an extensive history of bullying the kids in Glee, despite the fact that two of them were members. The content of the messages on Finn and Noah's bodies were both direct references to things that only a Glee member would know. And Jesse St. James was an opponent of the club. There's enough evidence stacked up to put any one of your kids away."

Will gulped audibly.

"Mr. Schuester, are there any members of your club that you think would be more likely to commit murder?"

Will thought long and hard about the answer to that question. And he finally understood that, no matter how often he'd tried to facilitate a healthy, happy learning environment in the choir room, once the kids walked out that door, his protective bubble popped and they were the most vulnerable kids in the school. He thought about Rachel singing _Gives You Hell_, a musical attack directed at Finn, and he thought of Mercedes and Santana coming within an inch of tearing each other's heads off when Mercedes was dating Puck. He thought about the boys leaping up, ready to beat the crap out of Jesse after he egged Rachel, and he recalled Kurt's expression when he'd turned down the opportunity to sing _Defying Gravity_. He remembered hearing about Tina suddenly turning to scream at Artie in the middle of the crowded hallway for womanizing her, and he could easily imagine Artie's face upon learning that Tina had lied about her stutter. He thought of Mike's expression when he pretended to pay attention to the kid's offer to pop 'n lock. He thought about Quinn glaring at Finn and Puck every time they did something that put her down, whether it was checking Rachel out when they thought Quinn wasn't looking or making idle commentary about Hall of Fame MILFs. He thought about Brittany's upset face every time he handed her back a test with _See Me_ written in condemning red pen, and the bird corpse that'd been discovered in her locker. And he'd overheard Matt muttering furiously to himself on many an occasion about the bullying his fellow football jocks had been dishing out day by day.

How had he not noticed the spiking anger levels in the kids he saw the most often?

"Mr. Schuester?"

Letting out a long, steadying breath, Will finally answered.

* * *

"Mercedes, are you coming over or not? I'm making dinner for Dad and Carole, and the sheer amount of cholesterol in this room is giving me a headache. I desperately need moral support."

Mercedes giggled, holding her cell phone between her shoulder and her ear. "Relax, girl, I'm coming. I'm just changing."

"For the third time today? Impressive."

"Well, just because I'm gonna be hanging at a mechanic's house doesn't mean I can't look damn hot," she reasoned, pulling on the jacket Kurt had given her two days before.

"Darling, that's the law I live by," Kurt said with approval. "I'll see you in ten."

When Mercedes arrived, the kitchen smelled heavily of burgers. "Damn, Kurt, since when do you make meals with fatty meats?"

Kurt flipped a beef patty over in the frying pan. "Since Carole's been too grief-stricken to make dinner," he answered simply. "It's become my job."

Mercedes' smile slid off her face. "Right. And how are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he said. Wiping his fingers on a dishtowel, he smiled consolingly. "Don't worry about me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks, 'Cedes." The oil in the pan popped, drawing Kurt's attention back to the stove. "You can go join Dad and Carole in the dining room if you want. I'm making another burger for you."

"What are you eating?" Mercedes asked as she headed out of the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm just having salad."

"Okay, but you'd better be getting some nutrition or someth—" Mercedes stopped short when she entered the dining room.

At first glance, there was nothing wrong. Had the sight been a photograph, she would have thought nothing was out of the ordinary. But Burt and Carole sat at their respective seats at the dining room table, absolutely and completely silent.

They weren't smiling.

They weren't _blinking_.

Mercedes screamed.

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**A/N: What can I say? I have a thing for cliffies. Please review!**


	8. In Which Kurt Improvises

**A/N: What's this? Two updates within three hours? This person must have no life!

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**

And once Mercedes had started screaming, she didn't stop. Burt and Carole didn't move, didn't react, didn't hear her. Kurt did, though, and he stormed into the room.

"_What_ are you screaming about? Did you find another mouse? Because I've been setting traps—"

Mercedes whirled around, backing away several steps, her eyes wide enough to rival Miss Pillsbury's and her hands held out in front of her, a subconscious attempt to keep Kurt _away_. "Kurt," she whispered. "What the _fuck_."

"What is _wrong_ with you, 'Cedes?"

"What's wrong with _me?_" she cried, her voice rising at least an octave, her gaze jumped wildly from Kurt to his father and almost-step-mother and back again. "What's wrong with _you?_"

He looked offended as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know, Mercedes, what _is_ wrong with me?" he snapped defensively.

Her jaw dropped and she was at a loss for words. "Kurt, it…it was you…all this time?"

"It was me what?"

Mercedes could barely hear her own voice over the sound of the blood roaring in her ears, and she fleetingly prayed that it would stay in her veins today. "Y-you killed them?"

Kurt looked confused for a split second, then comprehension cleared his face. "Oh, _that_," he said, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm calling the police."

But the second she tried to dial 911, the phone was snatched from her hand and disappeared under Kurt's heel with a deafening _crunch_. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said under his breath.

She avoided eye contact, tried to keep her breath steady. "A-are you going to kill me?" she managed.

"I wasn't planning on it…" he said. "But right now, I'm undecided. You know how I like improv."

Mercedes suddenly found that her lungs weren't expanding, and she gasped for air.

Kurt placed a hand on her back. "Come on, 'Cedes, breathe."

She smacked his hand away. "_Don't touch me_," she hissed. His eyes narrowed at her and the corner of his mouth twitched, but he backed down.

"I don't understand why you're so mad."

"You don't—!" she cried, her voice choked off as she struggled not to vomit. "Why the _fuck_ are they dead?" She gestured wildly to the corpses sitting idly at the dining room table.

He looked over to where she was pointing. "I wanted the perfect family."

"…What?"

He scratched behind his ear. "You know…the mom, the dad, the perfect son who makes burgers and doesn't care that they're loaded with fatty acids. Dad wanted it too, you know. It's not like I went against his wishes or anything."

Mercedes was dangerously close to losing her battle with her stomach. "What…what did you do to Santana?"

He tilted his head to the side, his expression one of what could only be described as mild amusement.

"You're wearing her."

* * *

Matt was just exiting a gas station convenience store with a fistful of Slim Jims when his cell buzzed in his back pocket. He didn't recognize the number, but he answered anyways, prepared to hang up should it be a telemarketer.

"'ello?"

"_Matt!_" The voice on the other end was hysterical, nearly screeching. There was a loud clatter, like furniture being tipped over.

"Who is this?"

"It's— _Ah! Fuck!_ It's Mercedes! I need you to come pick me up and if you aren't on the road in ten seconds, _I will kill you!_"

Matt frowned. This person sounded nothing like Mercedes. This person was frantic, panicked. There was a banging sound. "What's going on?"

"It's Kurt!" The banging continued, almost rhythmically. "_Shit,_ he's got a crowbar! _Come get me!_"

His heart suddenly racing, Matt jumped into his car, tearing out of the gas station parking lot. "Mercedes, I'm on my way. Where are you?"

More banging. Wood splintering. "_Fuck!_ I'm at Kurt's house! I locked myself up in his dad's room, but I don't think the door's gonna hold much—" A loud _crash_, and a scream.

"'Cedes! 'Cedes!" Matt yelled into his phone, his car jumping over a curb. He ignored the annoyed honks of a couple of other drivers. "Fuck. 'Cedes! Dammit, answer me!"

He took his eyes away from the road for a split second, just long enough to glance at the screen of his cell. The call had been disconnected. "_Shit._" He pressed on the accelerator, his mind reeling with everything she'd screamed at him. If Kurt had a crowbar and Mercedes was scared _out of her fucking mind_ of her BFF, then Matt was suddenly acutely aware of the glaring answer to the mystery of who had murdered the four guys in the auditorium. Not to mention Jesse and quite likely Santana, though the latter had yet to be found.

Matt jumped the curb and parked half on the Hummel's driveway, half on their lawn. Mercedes' blue VW Bug was parked in the drive, but Matt barely took notice of it as he tumbled out of the driver's seat, leaving the door open, and burst through the front door of the house.

It was quiet.

* * *

**A/N: We've been over this - I like cliffies, okay? Review!**


	9. In Which Johnny Is Here

**A/N: This chapter was SO MUCH FUN to write :D**

* * *

Matt had been to Kurt Hummel's house only once before, when the Glee guys had had a boy's day out followed up with a night of video-gaming on the Hummels' massive flatscreen, so he was somewhat familiar with the layout. Despite that, the place felt cold and strange when he walked through the front door and into the kitchen. The only sound was sizzling and popping coming from a pan sitting harmlessly on the stove, and the air smelled heavily of cooking meat. Had it been any other circumstance, the smell would've been enticing, but now it only made his stomach churn.

"Mercedes?" he called, walking from room to room. When he reached the dining room and found Mr. Hummel and Ms. Hudson sitting at the table cold, stiff, and slightly blue in the face, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Something caught his eye from where it lay on the floor, and he bent down to pick up Mercedes' newest leather jacket. He swallowed and dropped it back onto the carpet, calling her name again.

"She's not here."

Matt jumped and whipped around to find Kurt standing in the doorway behind him, hands laced daintily in front of him. "The hell did you do to her?"

"Me?" Kurt asked. "I didn't do anything." He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "She dropped of her own accord."

"You sick freak. Where is she?"

Kurt sighed, crossing his arms. "Look, I know she called you. I'm not going to try to lie my way out of this; there'd be no point."

"Tell me where she is," Matt demanded. "Did you kill her?"

"Oh, she's alive. A little worse for wear, but alive."

Matt nearly choked. "Worse for—!" he cried. "What the _fuck_ did you do?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Jeez, the way you're acting, you'd think I'd killed her or something."

Matt tensed. "I'd believe it."

The smaller boy's eyebrows arched in a way that sent a wave of goosebumps over Matt's skin. "Killing Mercedes was never part of the plan," he said smoothly. "It's not my fault she reacted the way she did. She got in the way; I had to improvise."

Matt could feel his heart knocking hard against his ribs. "I get why you were mad at Puck and the others. But why'd you kill Finn?"

Kurt shrugged. "Simple math – it rains, it pours, the old man snores. He goes to bed, they cut off his head, and he never gets up in the morning."

Matt's stomach rolled violently in his gut. "You…you killed him…because you wanted him out of the way?" He was pretty sure his voice was trembling uncontrollably, and he struggled to keep it even. He glanced at the corpses neatly posed at the dining table. "So you could play house?"

The muscles beneath Kurt's eyes tightened slightly, and Matt knew he'd said the wrong thing. His arms dropped to his sides, his fingers slowly curling into fists. "You know, Matt… judging people is a dangerous thing to do."

Matt bolted.

He ran through the hallway and up the stairs three at a time, and he didn't have to hear the sound of the friction beneath Kurt's shoes to know that Kurt was running after him. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he dove into the first room, locking the door behind him and holding his breath. In the sudden quiet, he could hear light footsteps slowly making their way past the door.

"Ma-aaaatt…" Kurt's honeyed voice seeped through the grain of the wood, sending shivers up and down Matt's spine. Kurt called his name again, but this time it was punctuated by a terrifying clank of solid metal on the hardwood floor, not terribly loud – just enough for Matt to hear it.

_Shit. Crowbar._

"Can't hide forever, Matt…" Kurt called, the crowbar he held thunking against the floor like a cane as he walked up and down the hall.

The sound grew louder as Kurt closed in, finally stopping just on the other side of the door. Matt closed his eyes and prayed that Kurt would keep going.

"Mercedes likes you, you know," Kurt said from the other side of the door. "That's why she called you – your number was the only one she knew off the top of her head."

At the mention of Mercedes' head, the crowbar smashed into the door with tremendous force, jarring Matt enough so that his teeth hurt. Desperately, he looked around the room for some place to hide as the door was struck again and again, rattling against the lock holding it in place. But it was a study of some sort – there were no beds he could dive under, no closets he could crouch in. As the door began to splinter, Matt stood in the center of the room, steeling himself for what he knew would come as soon as the door gave way. He gritted his teeth, feeling his heart speed up and all of his muscles tense. Wood chips began to loosen and clatter to the floor under the strain, and suddenly a thick slat popped out of its place, losing its grip and bending down, leaving a hole in the door. Kurt's arm snaked through and deftly released the lock, and the door burst open, falling back weakly on its hinges.

Before Kurt had a chance to step into the room, Matt lunged. They were suddenly in the hallway, Matt pinning Kurt against the wall with the crowbar across the smaller boy's chest.

Kurt laughed, slightly winded. "Wow, it is a _lot_ harder to kill someone when there's a chase involved."

"You're fucking sick, you know that?"

Kurt shrugged, bringing his knee up sharply so that it connected between Matt's legs, sending Matt to the ground in pain. The crowbar fell from his hands and clanged to the floor, and Kurt picked it up. Matt groaned and slowly tried to pull himself up.

"It's funny," Kurt said, turning the crowbar in his fingers in anticipation. "Mercedes memorized your number even though she never had the balls to actually call you, but she never bothered to memorize mine."

Kurt raised the crowbar, his fingers tightening around the metal as he readied to bring it down onto Matt's skull. But something collided with the back of his head, shattering, and he stumbled forward as ceramic shards rained down around him.

Mercedes stood at the top of the stairs, a trickle of dried blood down the side of her face and her hair mussed.

Once Kurt recovered from the initial shock of taking a vase to the head, he grinned at Mercedes. "Well, good morning, sleepyhead."

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**A/N: _The Shining_ much? Heeeeeere's Kurtsie! Sorry, I just had to say that. Please review!**


	10. In Which Kurt Cites Chicago

**A/N: Did you know that the guy who did the voice of Winnie the Pooh also voiced Kaa the Snake from The Jungle Book? It's true. I no longer trust Winnie the Pooh.

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**

"Put it down, Kurt."

"Oh, Matt and I were just having some fun."

"Kurt, put the crowbar on the fucking ground!"

Kurt's smile vanished, and he flipped it into his other hand. "No."

Mercedes wobbled slightly, and Matt suddenly realized as she blinked slowly that she had a concussion. She braced an arm against the wall. "Kurt…" she whispered. "Kurt, they're gonna put you away…"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he suddenly shouted, making Mercedes and Matt jump. "You are about to see a story of murder! Greed! Corruption! Exploitation! Adultery! And treachery!" He jokingly placed his hand over his chest, a grin spreading over his face. "All the things we hold near and dear to our hearts."

"You're insane."

He laughed. "Depends on your definition."

"_You made me a jacket out of Santana's skin, Kurt!_" she screamed, making Kurt's smile stretch wider.

"What?" Matt cried.

"Matt, call the police," Mercedes said, gulping as if she was trying not to throw up.

"Uh-uh, Matthew," Kurt taunted as Matt reached for his phone. "Look what I found." He withdrew something from his own pocket.

"How the fuck did you get my cell phone?"

"You really ought to be more careful with these things," Kurt said. "You never know who might pick them up."

"Kurt, put the crowbar down," Mercedes said again.

"I don't think you quite understand what's going on here, 'Cedes," Kurt said, his fingers tightening around the iron bar. She flinched at his casual use of her nickname, but if he noticed he didn't let on. "You have a massive concussion. You feel nauseous and dizzy. You're having a hard time staying upright. In short – you don't stand a chance."

Matt pulled himself to his feet, the pain from between his legs finally subsided.

"Please…" Mercedes whispered.

Kurt's smile faltered and he sniffed the air. "Do you smell something burning?" His eyes widened when he remembered the meat patties on the stove downstairs.

Mercedes ignored the distraction, but something suddenly occurred to Matt. "Kurt…what did you do with Santana's body?" he asked, afraid to know the answer.

Kurt chuckled at the memory. "It's amazing how much trust the student body puts in the cafeteria's mystery meat special."

Matt stomach twisted and Mercedes looked dangerously close to retching onto the floor.

Kurt sighed. "I'm bored. This conversation is over." In the blink of an eye, the crowbar swung up and toward Matt's head. Matt ducked just in time for the weapon to brush over the tips of his hair and embed itself into the wall behind him. Kurt growled under his breath and he was forced to take a second to yank the bar out of the wood as Matt scrambled around his feet, stumbling toward Mercedes. He grabbed her arm and the two of them clattered down the stairs, making a break for it with Kurt close on their heels.

Matt gave Mercedes a shove from behind, practically throwing her into the kitchen as he whirled around and grabbed the crowbar, his muscles straining as he and Kurt pushed and pulled and gritted their teeth, each trying to gain control over the iron weapon. Slowly, Matt lost ground and Kurt gained, and suddenly Kurt wrenched the bar from Matt's fingers, sending it into Matt's stomach. Matt's lungs deflated with a _whoomph_ of air, and he doubled over, clutching his abdomen as his diaphragm screamed in protest and his ribs struggled to open. Kurt raised a foot and kicked him in the shoulder, sending him to the floor.

While Kurt was occupied, Mercedes snatched the smoking pan off the stove and swung it at Kurt's head. A stew of overcooked ground meat and boiling fat and oil splattered across Kurt's cheek, seeping into his hair, and he recoiled with a yell like he'd been electrocuted. The crowbar fell to the tiles and he grabbed at his face, hissing in pain.

"_Not the face!_" he screeched, a vein in his neck sticking out beneath the skin. "_Not the FUCKING face, you fucking BITCH! FUCK!_"

Mercedes tried not to focus on how Kurt sounded absolutely nothing like the Kurt she knew, and tried instead to concentrate on the fact that he was hurt and was at a disadvantage. He was leaning against the kitchen island, a hand clamped over half of his face while the other was twisted into an unrecognizable mask of seething rage, his teeth bared and his eyes squeezed shut. Mercedes reached down and helped Matt, still wheezing for air, back onto his feet, keeping her grip on the pan handle.

The second his unwounded eye opened again, she wielded the pan again, striking him on the other side of his head with the still-scorching metal. He screamed again, but this time he snatched the crowbar back up from the floor, not hesitating before making a swing for the both of them. But with one of his eyes still burning from the hot oil and animal juice that had seeped into it, his perception was off, and he missed by a good foot and a half as Mercedes and Matt jumped backwards, circling around the island and dashing for the garage door.

Matt knew they only had a few seconds before Kurt burst into the garage after them, so he threw open the closest tool chest, rummaging through for anything to use as a weapon. Mercedes still hadn't put down the pan, but now she dropped it in exchange for a sledgehammer that had been hanging on the wall. Matt let out a yell and drew his hand back when his fingers brushed against something cold and soft in the bottom of the tool chest. He removed a set of screwdrivers and nearly vomited upon seeing the bluish, limp hand lying inconspicuously against the plastic.

"Jesus _fuck_," Matt muttered, trying to ignore the bile rising in his throat as he settled for a massive hammer.

"What?" Mercedes asked, her voice almost higher than Kurt's.

Matt gulped and was about to answer, but the door banged open at that moment and Kurt stormed in, blisters already forming across the skin scalded by his ruined meal. Matt leaped up and took a stance in front of Mercedes, brandishing his hammer.

Kurt grinned, red-faced and winded. "I have to admit," he said, his sarcasm disguised by his smile but revealed in his tone. "You two make one _resourceful_ duo."

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**A/N: I re-watched _American Psycho_ three times for inspiration on this chapter :P I couldn't help but throw in a little Patrick Bateman into the mix. Please review!**


	11. In Which Serenity Drops

Tina was looking forward to this evening. Her parents were out of town, which meant that Artie was able to stay over without them sneering at him behind his back. They didn't really have anything against him personally, they just insisted that she could have found someone with working legs, to which Tina would scoff and remark that they'd only be satisfied if she brought home an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Or a Korean. Or better yet, a Korean Abercrombie & Fitch model.

Like that was going to happen.

So now, the two of them were hanging out in Tina's kitchen, working on English homework and enjoying a day away from the loudmouthed commentary from Mercedes and Kurt and the not-so-subtle eye rolls from the rest of the club whenever they did anything remotely romantic.

"I am so _sick_ of this Jekyll and Hyde stuff," Artie grumbled, flipping his copy of the novella onto the table and stretching. "How much more soaked in metaphors can this guy get?"

Tina snorted. "Come on, this book's a classic."

"So?" Artie countered. "I'd rather not be reading about some guy with an evil alter-ego less than two weeks after some psycho did in a bunch of people we knew."

Tina sighed, shutting her book. "Dammit, I'd made it for almost an hour without thinking about that."

"Sorry."

"Let's pop in a movie or something," Tina said. "I don't want to do this any more."

Artie smiled and wheeled towards the living room. "I'll put on _Serenity_ – can you make the popcorn?"

"Sure." She gave him a quick peck on the lips before removing the pack from the box in the cupboard and tossing it into the microwave. A few minutes later as she was shaking the bag out into a large bowl for them to share, she heard Artie call her frantically from the living room.

"_Tee!_"

Worried that he'd somehow managed to tip his chair over the risen step by the fireplace again, she dropped the bag onto the counter and went to see what was wrong. Artie was still sitting in his chair, however, staring wide-eyed at the television, his mouth hanging open. The DVD case for _Serenity_ lay open on the floor where he'd dropped it.

"What's going on?" Tina asked, coming up behind him.

He didn't answer, just stared at the screen, and finally Tina paid attention to what was happening. Her stomach did a flip. "Oh my God," she breathed.

The camera was trained on Kurt's house, crime scene tape criss-crossing the area around it and several police cars and two ambulances were parked in various positions around the house and garage. Neither Artie nor Tina were really listening to Rod Remington's voice-over commentary, too occupied with what they were seeing. Police officers were rushing back and forth, and two men with _CORONER_ printed on the backs of their jackets were loading a body covered in a white sheet into an ambulance.

"Oh my God," Tina said again. "Please tell me that's not Kurt."

"I don't know," Artie said quietly.

"Wait, is that—?" She squinted at the screen, at two figures sitting together on the sidelines, being fawned over by a couple of EMTs. "Is that Matt and Mercedes?"

Artie was about to agree, but just then the front door to the Hummel residence opened and three policemen came out, struggling to contain someone between them as he thrashed and yelled, his hands cuffed behind his back.

"What the _fuck?_" Tina whispered. "Is that _Kurt?_"

Artie gulped audibly. "I – I think so."

As Kurt was practically dragged across the lawn and he neared the camera, what he was saying became audible and he tried to lunge at Mercedes and Matt. His words were punctuated with blips as his unfavorable language was omitted, and the officers somehow managed to shove him into the back of the nearest police cruiser.

"I'm calling Mercedes," Tina said definitively as the footage cut back to the news desk with Rod and Andrea Carmichael. She disappeared back into the kitchen, grabbing the phone and punching in Mercedes' cell number. When she got the prerecorded message that the number was no longer in service, she tried Matt's, connecting only with his voicemail. "Dammit," she muttered before remembering that Quinn had moved in with Mercedes and dialing the Jones' home phone.

"Hello?"

"Quinn! It's Tina. Is Mercedes there?"

"Uh, no, she went over to Kurt's house…" Quinn said, confused by the urgency in Tina's voice. "Why? What's going on?"

"Turn on your TV," Tina said. "Channel Four."

There was some rustling on the other end, a small grunt as Quinn pulled her enormous self to her feet, and then the sounds of the television in the background. "Holy…" Quinn murmured. "Is that Kurt's house? What happened?"

"He got arrested," Tina said, running her hand through her hair in agitation.

"_What?_" Quinn cried. There was a pause on the other end as Quinn processed what was going on. "Oh, Jesus," she finally said. "It was _Kurt_?"

Tina took a long breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. She was not going to have a panic attack. Not now. "I – I don't know, Quinn. They…they found bodies…"

"Oh, _Jesus_," Quinn repeated.

"Mercedes is okay," Tina said hastily before Quinn could jump to conclusions. "We saw her and Matt on the TV, but her cell's not working and Matt's not answering."

"Shit, there's a call on the other line – can you hold on a sec?" The line went quiet for a few moments, Tina chewing her nails nervously until Quinn's voice reappeared. "Tina, that was Mercedes – she's at the hospital."

"At the hospital? Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's got a concussion, but she's fine. Matt's with her."

"Did she say anything about what happened?"

"No," Quinn replied. "Honestly, she didn't sound all that coherent. She sounded…well, concussed. Listen, Tina, I gotta go – I have to find Mercedes' parents and tell them where she is. I'll call you as soon as she comes home, I promise."

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**A/N: Semi-filler chapter, sorry. Kurt will be heavily featured next chap. We're nearing the end! Please review :)**


	12. In Which Kurt Tells It Like It Is

**A/N: Despite there being a distinct lack of real action in this chapter, I think this one was the most fun to write.**

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Quinn had always hated the smell of hospitals, but now the pungent odor and the blinding pastel walls provided a small amount of relief from the outside world. Since she'd seen the footage on TV of Kurt being dragged out of his house and thrown into the back of the police car, finally realizing along with Tina and Artie just what their supposed friend was beneath the Banana Republic suave, she'd felt unsafe. Just thinking of the fact that she had _known_ him, _danced_ with him, _touched _him… it made her shudder.

She checked in at the nurse's station to find out where Mercedes was – she'd called Mr. and Mrs. Jones at work, gotten permission to borrow Mrs. Jones' car, and agreed to meet them at Lima General. Finding her way to the ER wards, she wandered around until she spied Matt sitting slumped in a visitor's chair, his head resting against his fist and his eyes closed.

"Matt," she said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He jumped nearly two feet in the air, startling Quinn as his eyes snapped open. "_Ow_, that _hurt_," he muttered, easing back into his seat once he saw that it was just her.

"Jeez, Matt," Quinn said, eyeing him with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, wincing as he shifted to a more comfortable position. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You don't look good," she said, taking a seat in the second chair beside him. It was true – he looked absolutely exhausted.

He grimaced. "Fucker hit me with a crowbar."

Quinn gasped. "You're kidding."

He shook his head, lifting up his shirt to reveal a long, narrow and _very_ painful-looking bruise across his abdomen.

"Oh, my God—" Quinn started.

He shrugged, pulling his shirt back down. "They gave me a couple of painkillers, but it's still a bad idea to move a lot. Least none of my ribs are broken."

Quinn made a noise of agreement. "Where's Mercedes?"

"Behind that curtain, in bed," Matt said, nodding to the makeshift wall. "The nurses are waking her up every half-hour; they want to keep her overnight."

Quinn's eyebrows shot up. "It's that bad?"

"He threw her headfirst into a wall – if it'd been any harder, her skull would've cracked."

"Jesus." She lightly brushed her fingers over her baby bump. "So…what happened, exactly?" Her voice was quiet.

Matt scratched his ear. "She called me, screaming that Kurt had a crowbar and he was trying to kill her, so I got over there fast as I could," he started, staring at the curtain that concealed Mercedes' bed. "Quinn, his parents were dead."

"_What?_" she whispered. "You…you found—?"

"He, like, _arranged _them," Matt said, his voice tight. "They were just…sitting. At the table. Like they were waiting for dinner." He rubbed his eyes. "God, it's so fucked up."

Quinn could only nod in agreement.

* * *

Will had requested that Sgt. Sigurdson give him a call when they caught whoever had murdered five of his students, and he'd asked that he be allowed to see them. Sigurdson had been reluctant, but eventually agreed, and he was in the middle of cooking dinner when his phone rang.

"William Schuester?"

"Yes?"

"We got him."

He'd known ahead of time that the meeting would be difficult, but he'd never thought it would be quite this shocking. As he waited on the bench in the police station, his head leaning back against the wall, he felt like he was breathing underwater. His blood pulsed in his ears and fingertips. When Sigurdson had asked him if he thought any of his kids were more likely to kill someone, he'd finally accepted that one of them had, but he'd been unable to point his finger at any of them. And then as he'd mulled over the situation again and again, he'd secretly suspected Santana. They hadn't known if she was dead or not, after all, and she had not by any standards been a role model in school. But now, he felt a surge of guilt for thinking it could have been her. Looking back, remembering her in classes and in Glee and seeing her in the halls with Brittany and her fellow Cheerios…she'd been just a scared shitless little girl who was willing to do nearly anything to gain respect.

His train of melancholy thoughts was interrupted when Sigurdson emerged from one of the back rooms and called his name. "You've got twenty minutes," she said as she escorted him through the corridors.

The holding cell looked a lot like they did in the movies. Barren. A cage in the corner of a blank room. Kurt was leaning against the far wall of bars, his arms folded neatly across his chest. His eyes calmly followed his Spanish teacher as he approached.

"Kurt…" Will started. His voice trailed off then – what was there to say, anyway?

"Come to wail and cry and ask me why I did it?" Kurt asked, his voice low and smooth. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Will shivered. There were angry red blisters stretching across nearly half of his face.

"What happened to you?" Will whispered.

He smirked. "Dinner went haywire. I was never that great of a cook, anyway," he said. "Oh wait, you meant the killings."

Will flinched at how easily Kurt had said it. "Kurt, what you did…what you did was inhuman."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

"How could you have done that? To Finn, to Puck—"

"Puck was a hypocrite," Kurt interrupted. "He was a mama's boy who liked to believe he was the cock of the walk, and as far as I'm concerned he got exactly what was coming to him."

"And Santana?" Will demanded. "Did you do something to her?"

Kurt chuckled, looking out the tiny window for a moment. "She was my favorite, actually."

Will's eyes widened. "You…you're legitimately insane."

Kurt mock-winced. "Little harsh, don't you think? Isn't that violating some teacher-student conduct policy, talking to me like that?"

Will froze, staring at Kurt as the boy stepped closer.

"I did the school a favor," Kurt said slowly as he gradually approached. "Karofsky, Azimio… Santana, too. And Puck. They were scum who got off on petty bullying and making the rest of us miserable. Frankly, I'm amazed they lasted this long." Kurt looped his fingers around the bars, getting as close to Will as the cell would allow. Will subconsciously backed up a step.

Kurt's eyes were startlingly level. "You are the most naïve educator in the country. You saw me, every day," he said. "Every day, you saw me by the dumpsters, surrounded by those Neanderthal jocks, inches away from being tossed in with the trash, and not once did you bother to put a stop to it. You didn't even bother to realize what they were doing."

And despite the terror that was swirling in Will's gut, he knew it was true. Another wave of guilt smashed into him like he'd been slapped, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Kurt, if what you did was because of me, then—"

Kurt made a face, cutting him off. "Oh, come _on_, Mr. Schue. Don't try and apologize for something you had nothing to do with."

Had the statement been said in any other situation and by anyone else, it would have been relieving, but Kurt managed to make it sound like a grave insult. "You _just_ said—"

"You're naïve," Kurt said again. "You're dumb. You're a flake and a coward. So don't think for a second that you can claim any credit for knocking those gorillas down a few pegs. You're not that important."

Will stared at him, slack-jawed.

"What, are you offended?" Kurt laughed, raising his eyebrows. "You know, maybe you should take a leaf or two out of Sylvester's book. Then at least people might respect you more."

"I didn't come here to be lectured," Will said.

Kurt shook his head. "Of course you didn't." He stepped back, returning to where he'd been leaning against the far wall of bars. He picked some dirt from beneath his thumbnail. "Go on, Mr. Schue. Go ahead and go back to school, tell all the rest of the Glee clubbers what a sick, crazy psycho I am."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Oh, would you _stop_ with the _worrying_?" Kurt snapped. "Not every little thing that I say is a direct attack, Schuester."

Will sighed, fiddling with the keys in his pocket. "Goodbye, Kurt." He turned toward the door, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder, even after Kurt called out to him...

"And Mr. Schue? 1980 called – it wants its tie back."

_- FIN -_

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**A/N: Wow, we have come to the end of this short-ish foray into the McKinley slaughterhouse. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please leave a review, and after you do, be sure to check out the other installments in the _Expect the Unexpected _series, and add me to Author Alert to be notified when new ones are posted.**

**I'm reasonably sane, I swear.**


	13. In Which A Riot Begins

**A/N: So... I lied. It's not the end. This was actually meant to be a surprise epilogue because I got SO MANY fantastic reviews from all of you, and a surprisingly high percentage of you wanted me to add more to it. I honestly thought that Kurt's conversation with Mr. Schue in the holding cell was going to be the end, but then I had a great idea for an epilogue, so I just HAD to get it out :D Hope you like!

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To say that Glee had been weird since Kurt had been locked away would be a gross understatement. The kids went about their daily business like normal for the most part, but there was an unspoken tension stretching between all of them during rehearsals and, Will suspected, outside the choir room as well. Whenever he was standing by the piano and conducting to keep the beat as they rehearsed their latest routine, Will couldn't help but think over and over again just how _small_ the club looked now that Puck, Finn, Santana, and Kurt were gone.

It was still nearly impossible to say the words _Kurt Hummel brutally murdered a total of seven people_ and believe them. But the newspaper articles on the slaughter had been a little too specific, and the Glee kids no longer ate in the cafeteria despite the fact that Figgins had had the lunch ladies throw out all the meat they had stored and order new stock, just to make sure that there was no more Cheerleader Delight on the menu. They also avoided glancing at the choir room ceiling, where the hook that Kurt had hung Puck on was still screwed into the plaster – maintenance was supposed to have dealt with it, but they hadn't and Will was planning on coming in on the weekend and removing it himself.

And he _missed_ them. He missed Puck's snarky comments and Finn's lame attempts at dancing, and he missed Santana's trademark eye-rolls every time Frankenteen tripped (and God _damn_ it, he had to _stop using that nickname_ – it raised the hairs on his neck every time he thought of it). But most of all, he missed Kurt and Mercedes' joint criticism of the rest of the club. Now that Kurt had gone all Section-A sicko, Mercedes seemed to be heading in Tina's direction – she was quiet and didn't fight direction unless she really had major problem with it.

Will really missed _normalcy._

Three days after Kurt's arrest, Will stood at his kitchen stove with a dishtowel casually thrown over his shoulder, making dinner. A half-finished glass of red wine sat on the counter by the cutting board. He'd been the cook for most of the time while he was still married to Terri, but it felt a little strange to be cooking now that there was only one person to feed. He sprinkled some diced peppers into the pan with the stripped chicken he was sautéing (red meats had been giving him the creeps lately), taking a sip from his wine glass.

He thought he heard the quiet click of the front door being closed, and he frowned, calling out, "That you, Terri?" It was a bit late for a visit from his ex-wife, but she hadn't cleared out all her things yet and she'd made a habit of dropping by at unsuspecting times in hopes of catching Emma in the apartment. Figuring he must have been imagining it, he took another sip of wine and returned his attention to his cooking meal. Then, he remembered that he'd locked the door when he'd gotten home (it had become a habit after the murders were first discovered), and he wiped the food bits off his fingers, peering out into the dining room. "Terri?" he called. She was the only one who had a key besides himself.

After receiving no response, Will was about to turn back into the kitchen when he definitely heard a floorboard creak, and a wave of goosebumps rippled over his body, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing straight up. He stopped, his heart pounding against the inside of his ribcage, and turned the dining room lights on (he did have to conserve electricity, after all). He just stood there for a minute, feeling chilly even though it wasn't cold, and finally went around the apartment turning all the lights on. Screw conservation.

_This building is old_, he thought to himself as he returned to the kitchen just in time to take the chicken off the burner before it cooked too much. _It's just settling; that's all you heard. It's just an old building with a new interior. _

He put the sizzling frying pan into the sink and ran water over it, jerking his head back so he wouldn't get a faceful of steam. As the steam dissipated, he rinsed the pan out, then made the mistake of glancing at the window above the sink. There was a second face besides his own, smirking at him. "Shit!" He whipped around, his eyes wide and his blood roaring in his ears.

And yet, the kitchen was empty. He was alone.

Heaving a long breath and trying to stop his hands from shaking with the sudden adrenaline rush, he grabbed his dinner and sat down at the kitchen table.

_Just because a bunch of your students were murdered by a kid you thought was sane, it doesn't mean that he's coming after you. Kurt's in jail and he can't get out. Oh, dear God, I'm losing my mind._

Determined to think about something else, Will forcibly turned his thoughts to the arrangements for _Hit the Road, Jack_, which he was having Artie sing the next day at practice. He'd originally intended to give the male lead to Puck, but now that the jock was out of the picture it suited Artie's voice best. He supposed that the female parts could go to Tina, Mercedes, and Quinn – he hoped that having Tina in the spotlight a little more would help get her out of her shell, and Quinn could really get her voice to sound quite soulful when she put in the effort.

Unfortunately for Will, his brain seemed to have a mind of its own and his train of thought somehow segued back onto its previous track. After he'd confronted Kurt in the holding cell at the police station, he'd been on his way out and Sgt. Sigurdson had asked him if he'd gotten what he was looking for. He'd pretended not to hear her.

His thoughts were interrupted and he jumped nearly a foot in the air, choking on his mouthful of food when heavy music suddenly blasted from the living room, a song that he'd never heard before in his life. "_LET'S START A RIOT! A RIOT! LET'S START A RIOT!_" His stomach rolling violently in his gut as he coughed and tried to get the chicken out of his lungs, he headed for the living room to shut it off before the neighbors could appear to scream at him for the noise level. "_LET'S START A RIOT! A RIOT! LET'S START A—_"

He slammed his hand against the power button, wincing at the volume level, and the apartment was once again silent. Swallowing, he turned, looking around the room for any sign of an intruder. There was no sound except for his own breathing, no movements or disturbances. And yet Will couldn't shake the feeling that there was _something_ off. Besides the CD player suddenly springing to life.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Will turned back around, hitting the _Eject_ button and pulling out the CD that had been playing. It was a blank CD, with no label or handwritten title scrawled in Sharpie or any markings whatsoever. He hadn't recognized the song, which meant that it wasn't from his collection. And now he was beginning to get _seriously_ freaked out.

Rubbing the back of his neck in a lame attempt to get the hairs there to lie flat, he considered calling Emma and asking to spend the night. He could just see that conversation going down, though… "_Hey, Emma, I know I royally screwed you over and I know you outed me as a manwhore in front of half the staff, but I'm scared of the dark and my apartment may or may not be haunted. Hold me?_"

As he passed from the living room to the dining room on his way back to the kitchen, he didn't see the half-full wine bottle swing out and slam into the back of his skull. He crumpled to the floor, and everything went black.

* * *

**A/N: So, I'm estimating that there's maybe one or two more chapters on the way. Not sure how soon it/they'll be up, but know that it's/they're planned out and it IS/they ARE coming. In other news, I've posted _Unexpected_ installments for Finn, Tina, Artie, Mike and Matt, Rachel and Schue, and a oneshot separate from the series titled _Inhale_. Go read them! They're all quite hilarious, and I'm having a BLAST with Finn's. Leave a review!**


	14. In Which The BeeGees Break

When Will finally came around, he felt _pain_. His head was pounding, his neck hurt when he moved it, his shoulders were so sore it felt like they were on fire, and his lower half had long since fallen asleep. He groaned a little, his eyes still squeezed shut against the headache. Gradually, he began to absorb and process sounds from his surroundings, and he heard casual whistling, punctuated every couple of seconds by crunching plastic. He tried to open his mouth – his tongue felt paper-dry – but his heart skipped several beats when he felt the cloth wound in between his teeth. His eyes snapped open as he tried to stand up, but his hands and feet were bound to the chair he was sitting on. He was in the middle of the living room.

Another crunch of plastic drew his attention to where the CD player sat on the hutch against the wall to his right. The floor was littered with CDs, most of them cracked or scratched or snapped in half along with their cases, and in the middle of the mess, rummaging through the remaining discs in Will's extensive music collection, was Kurt. He was whistling under his breath, pulling out CD after CD, glancing at the cover and then either placing it back on the rack or tossing it to the ground and stomping on it.

Will was too stunned to voice even a muffled groan, and he was a little afraid of what was going to happen once Kurt knew he was awake. Apparently, Kurt already knew, though, since he loudly commented "Oh, my God – the BeeGees? Seriously?" Kurt flashed Will a disappointed look and the CD disappeared under his heel with a resounding _crack_.

Will's stomach roiled at how calmly Kurt was going about holding his former teacher hostage, and he realized that this…was not insanity. Kurt knew exactly what he was doing. Everything had been planned – every event and tiny detail… _Oh, God, I'm going to die._

Kurt's whistling had turned to light singing by this point. "_Excuse my petty fussing, but this house, it looks disgusting – bad taste is just a sickness; here's a cure_."

Will shivered a little.

"_I'll just make myself at home, mix it up and change the tone. Su casa es mi casa, that's for sure._" Kurt chuckled to himself as he snapped an ABBA album in two.

"So where's your wife?" Kurt asked a minute later in a tone so casual Will could've expected it to come from a colleague.

He did his best to glare defiantly at his former student until Kurt turned around, an eyebrow quirked expectantly. "Well?" he said. "Oh, silly me. I forgot. You're divorced. Tell me, Schue, because I'm rather curious…just how stupid do you have to be before you realize that your wife has a pillow under her shirt instead of a baby?"

_He's just toying with you, pushing you, trying to get you mad…_ Will thought over and over, trying not to react to Kurt's twisting of the figurative knife. He really, _really_ hoped that knife wouldn't turn out to be literal.

"I mean, you've got to be pretty fucking ignorant for that tiny detail to escape your attention," Kurt continued, sounding eerily like Puck for a split second. Will winced slightly as Kurt turned back to the CDs, humming. "_Excuse my petty fussing, but your life is so disgusting – mediocrity's a sickness; I'm the cure._"

Will tried not to throw up. _Why is he doing this? Is he…is he biding his time or something? Does he even mean to kill me? Oh God, help me. _Momentarily forgetting that he was gagged, Will tried to ask how Kurt had gotten into the apartment, his words coming out muffled and choked-off.

Kurt chuckled, leaning back against the hutch where the stereo stat. "Come again?" he said, his eyebrows shooting up in a smirk. Will gritted his teeth around the cloth. His eyes flickered to the apartment door, and Kurt noticed. "_Oh,_ you're wondering how I got in? Well, clearly, you've never seen _Mr. Brooks_."

Actually, Will _had _seen it (before the murders occurred, he'd loved a good horror/drama flick as much as the next guy), and an image of Kevin Costner deftly opening a locked door complete with a security chain flashed through his head, sending a chill up his spine. If he made it out of this, which he probably wouldn't, he resolved to get at least three heavy-duty iron padlocks, like the ones that people with severe paranoia insist on having. After all, he figured he was entitled to a little paranoia.

"_Do the creepy crawl. Sneaky, freaky, creepy crawl,_" Kurt hummed under his breath. Will stomach rolled when he saw the knife from his own kitchen poking out of Kurt's back pocket.

Then, the key clicked in the lock of the front door, the noise somehow breaking the tension and elevating it at the same time. Will's eyes widened and Kurt's head snapped up. Will was about to cry out and warn whoever was coming in, but Kurt grabbed a fistful of his hair and suddenly Will was looking down the six-inch blade from Kurt's pocket. "_Don't. You. Dare,_" Kurt hissed.

As the door slowly opened, Kurt smiled, a glint of eagerness flashing in his eyes. He held a finger to his lips, and promptly vanished into the kitchen.

"Will? Are you home?"

_No. Terri._

"Will?"

God, what was she even doing here this late? He wanted to scream at her to run, to save herself. She may have been psychotic, but she was nothing compared to the sociopath now lurking in the kitchen.

"Wi— Oh, my God!" Terri froze, letting out a terrified squeak as she came into the living room. Her messenger bag dropped to the floor with a _thud_, her eyes flicking from her tied-up ex-husband to the pile of broken CDs on the floor and back. After a second of shock Terri rushed forward, pulling the gag out of his mouth.

"Terri, you have to get out of here—" The words began to tumble as soon as his tongue was free.

"What are you talking about; I'm not leaving you like this—"

"Ter, listen to me, you need to _get out_—"

She was trembling as she tried to untie the ropes around his body, her voice shaking and her eyes wide. "God, Will, what's going on—"

"Terri, I want you to leave, _please_—"

The former Mrs. Schuester was about to protest again, but suddenly two arms appeared from behind her, yanking her back, and she yelped as she felt the knife pressing into the skin on her throat.

"No!" Will shouted, powerless as he was still tied up.

"Well, isn't this precious," Kurt sneered, speaking to Terri. "He still cares about you. It really is a shame that your fetus was fake. Your style is _so_ much classier than the germophobe."

"Kurt, let her go," Will begged. "Please, just let her go."

Kurt's expression hardened. "She interrupted me."

"Just let her go," Will repeated.

"Would you rather I did this to Pillsbury?"

Will's heart dove into his stomach. "No!" he yelped.

"Then shut up."

With that, Kurt began to drag Terri away from Will, the knife still against her neck. Terri whimpered and cried out, but didn't fight too much for fear of getting her throat slit.

"Terri!" Will yelled, struggling against his ropes and feeling the skin on his wrists tear. Kurt hauled Terri into the bathroom, and the door slammed shut. "_Terri! No!_" Trying to listen over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, Will could hear scuffling and water sloshing in the tub and Terri's petrified sobs, forming a cacophony that was put to an abrupt end with the unmistakable _smack_ of bone on porcelain. "_No!_" Will shouted again. His heart pounding, he could only wait as the sounds of water running in the bathtub lasted for what seemed like hours, and then, finally, the door opened again, and Kurt stepped out.

"What did you do to her?" Will demanded as Kurt re-entered the living room. "Did you kill her?"

"Oh, no, she's not dead," Kurt said. "Give her a couple minutes, though."

* * *

**A/N: There will be ONE more chapter after this. Not sure when it'll be posted, but rest assured that I know exactly what's going to happen in it, which means it'll be up sooner. Also, please please please read Finn's _Unexpected_ installment (titled _Discombobulate_), because I'm having so much fun writing it and I'm actually quite proud of it :D Okay, I'm done advertising. Leave a review!**


	15. In Which Schue Bristles With Bad Music

**A/N: This is ACTUALLY the end of the story. After much debate, I decided to do this chap from the cop's point of view. For some reason, I'm picturing her as Ellen Muth. (SpookyKat, you know why) And for the record, I hardly ever assign actors to my OCs. Oh, and I forgot to mention that the song Kurt was humming in the last chapter was 'Creepy Crawl' from _Live Freaky! Die Freaky!_, which is an extremely disturbing (even to me) puppet movie musical about Charles Manson. It's got a fantastic soundtrack, though. Onward!  


* * *

**

Sergeant Carrie Sigurdson was rudely awoken by the incessant ringing of the telephone just after five in the morning, and she answered with a harsh, "What?"

"_Hey, Siggy…_" her partner Mark Redding said on the other end, sounding like the miserable bearer of bad news. "_We got another murder._"

"…What do you mean _another_ one?" It took her all of three seconds to connect the dots and realize what Redding was about to say. "Hummel escaped?"

She could practically hear him wince. "_Yeah. He killed Ricky, and Walker's in the ICU right now._"

"Shit!" Carrie ran an agitated hand through her hair. The two men who'd been on guard that night were desk cops, not meant to be in the line of fire. The Ohio State had never provided enough funds to keep a higher qualified police force in Lima, since nothing ever really happened here except vandalism and the occasional bar fight, and Carrie had always _known_ that they would pay for it one day. Muttering profanities under her breath, she hauled herself out of bed and pulled her uniform out of the closet, switching the phone to speaker and setting it on the end table so that she could continue speaking while she was getting dressed. "Details, now," she demanded.

Redding sighed. "_We got a call about an hour ago from the landlord of that apartment building on Beech Ave, reporting the murder of one of his tenants. From what I understand, the downstairs neighbor heard thumping, scuffling…y'know, a struggle…but didn't think much of it, and then later water started seeping through the ceiling, and the landlord was called up to check it out. Landlord goes in, finds the body, and calls us._"

"Is Chief there yet?"

"_He's on his way. I'm heading over to your place now to pick you up; you gotta see this._"

"Who's the victim?"

"_That teacher you questioned couple weeks ago. William Shoe-something._"

Carrie paused for a minute in brief surprise. "Well, shit," she muttered.

Redding pulled into the driveway only a few minutes later, and Carrie was waiting on the front step with a cup of coffee in her hand and her gun in her holster. They arrived at El Dorado Condominiums before five-fifteen, climbing up to the second floor and ducking under the crime scene tape crossing the door to find the apartment swarming with at least ten other cops from various task forces. There were camera flashes as the forensics team snapped photographs of the scene.

"Hey, Chief," Carrie nodded a salutation to her boss when she and Redding walked through the door. "Where's the body?"

"Bodies, actually," Chief Hagen corrected. "We found a second one in the bathroom a couple minutes ago."

Carrie swore under her breath.

"That brings the count up to…what?" Redding inquired.

"Eleven."

"What were the causes of death on these two?" Carrie asked.

"Well, the lady in the bathroom died from a combination of head trauma and drowning," Hagen explained. "You can see for yourself; she's still face-down in the water. We think he knocked her out before she even got wet."

"And what about the teacher? How'd he die?"

Hagen sucked his cheeks in for a moment. "You'd better see for yourself. Come on."

He led them into the living room, ordering one of the photographers out of the way. Carrie stopped in her tracks. "Holy Christ," she breathed.

The man she had interrogated only a week and a half before sat limply in a chair that had been taken from the dining room, his hands and feet bound, slightly blue in the face. There was a large purple bruise that had bloomed over his right temple, obviously the result of being struck with some blunt object. But the worst part was that his body was _bristling_ with glinting shards of curved silver plastic embedded all over his flesh from his neck to his toes, and from the look of them each piece was stuck at least an inch deep.

"Are…are those _CD fragments_?" Carrie exclaimed, disgusted and slightly creeped out. She had worked for NYPD in Manhattan when she was fresh out of the academy and had seen some pretty twisted things, but this…this was just fucked up. A couple of the CD labels were legible from where she stood – ABBA, the BeeGees, Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer, Lou Bega…

"This is your case, Siggy." Hagen's voice snapped Carrie back to reality. "Any ideas as to the motive?"

She thought for a second, edging closer to study the corpse. "Well, Hummel was a student of this guy's for a long time. I think Hummel felt overlooked a lot of the time and he's getting his revenge."

"What about the blonde?" Hagen gestured to the bathroom.

Carrie frowned, brushing past her boss and her partner and leaning into the bathroom. The blonde woman had been left in a much different fashion than the teacher – there was no artistic flair or creative maiming. She was on her knees, slumped over the edge of the tub with her face beneath the surface, her hair floating like seaweed around her head. The tub was full to the brim with water, and someone must have turned off the tap because the room was flooded. There was a smear of blood on the corner of the sink where the woman had been thrown into it, a blotch of red in a beach-blue landscape.

"This…feels different," she mused aloud, her frown deepening.

"Care to explain?" Hagen had followed her and was waiting expectantly beside her. Redding leaned against the wall on her other side, looking equally curious.

"Hummel has an M.O.," she said, crossing her arms. "He likes irony, not only in how he kills them but in how he deals with them after they're dead. How he arranges the corpses so that they're presented a certain way when someone finds them. He didn't do that with her."

"He didn't care about how she was killed," Redding said, appearing thoughtful.

"Exactly. She was knocked out there," Carrie pointed to the blood smear on the sink, "and then he put her face-down in the tub and left it at that. Quick, simple, and relatively clean. It's not dramatic enough for Hummel – he goes for full-out theatricality."

Hagen frowned. "Then why kill her at all?"

"My guess is that he wasn't expecting her to be here. She comes in, he's forced to either run or deal with her, and he chose to deal with her so that he could concentrate on Schuester. I don't think he had a personal problem with her; she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When are the coroners getting here?"

"Once the forensics team finishes photographing," Hagen replied. "Which could take anywhere from an hour to—"

"_AH! _Holy _shit!_" came a sudden yelp from one of the photographers in the living room, falling backwards into the TV set with a crash. "Hey, Chief!" another one yelled frantically. "He's alive!"

"Oh, _shit_," Carrie muttered under her breath as she rushed to the living room, Hagen and Redding close on her heels.

Schuester's eyes were fluttering and it was obvious he wasn't quite conscious, but the officers could see that a blood vessel had burst in his right eye, on the side of his head where he'd been clubbed. His chest moved slightly, trying to draw in air but only succeeding in a cough that made him cry out in pain as the seventy or so shards of plastic embedded in his skin were all jostled at once. Carrie leaned forward and placed her hands gently on his shoulders, taking care not to touch the silver fragments protruding from the flesh there, and speaking in as calm a tone as she could manage.

"William, can you hear me right now?"

His eyes were jumping from place to place, never focusing on one thing for more than half a second, and his breathing was ragged and uneven. His mouth opened and closed like a fish's – he was trying to speak.

"Can you blink once for yes and twice for no?"

One blink.

"Okay, now listen to me. We're going to get you out of here and we'll get you to a hospital as soon as the EMTs get here. You're going to make it. Do you understand?"

He blinked once and then opened his mouth again, teeth gritting as he tried to say something.

"Try not to talk," she said softly.

"…_Kurt_—" he rasped, choking on the single syllable.

Carrie's mouth set in a determined line. "He's gone. I promise you, he's gone."

And somewhere along the interstate heading east through Pennsylvania, a black Navigator was traveling at a perfectly reasonable speed towards New York City, its driver drumming on the rim of the steering wheel and singing along with the CD he had playing at top volume.

"_Good night, baby! Good night, the milkman's on his way!_"

He rolled down the window and let the wind ruffle his hair.

"_Sleep tight, baby! Sleep tight, let's call it a day! Listen to the lullaby of old Broadway!_"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I hope you all enjoyed the finale; Lord knows I did :) The song that Kurt sings at the end is 'The Lullaby of Broadway' from _42nd Street_. Leave a review!**

**PS - A lot of you have asked me why I made Kurt a psychopath. Well, believe it or not, Kurt has actually shown signs of a potentially emerging serial killer. I am one hundred percent serious. His background makes sense, he's got parallels with Dahmer, Bundy, and a few others, and there's small signals that he's given that provide evidence for it. Minor gestures, expressions, etcetera. Fortunately for the rest of the Gleeks, Kurt's obviously got a good heart and a strong sense of morality, but if he didn't possess that trait, you can be sure that what you just finished reading would actually take place in one form or another.**

**I'll admit that I freaked myself out quite a bit while I was writing this. I mentioned what I had Kurt do to Puck to my brother, and I think he provided the perfect defense. He said, "Look, you're a writer. You _have_ to be able to put yourself into these situations and imagine shit like that because if you don't, you'll end up with _Twilight_. And if you ever wrote something like Twilight, then I would kill you, disown you, and then kill you again." Needless to say, I felt a lot better and I thought I'd share it with you in case you ever want to write a horror story without feeling guilty about killing characters off in creative ways :)  
**


	16. IMPORTANT: AUTHOR'S NOTE

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: IMPORTANT READER SURVEY_

Okay, so, I wrote this story two years ago, when Kurt as a psychopath was, in fact, unexpected. Unfortunately, it seems that every other horror story involving Kurt now positions him as a serial killer or murder of some sort.  
Therefore, I'm not sure that this story can any longer be qualified as an _Expect the Unexpected_ installment. I have been toying with a few ideas for a new _Unexpected_ story for Kurt, but I'd like to know what you think.

So, if you could either review or PM me with your opinion on the subject, I'd be most grateful. Any and all plot ideas for the possible new  
installment are welcome, though you can be sure that if I do end up writing it, you won't know which idea I decided to use until it's published.

Also, after re-reading this story recently, I've become dissatisfied with the writing and structure. Another possibility would be to rewrite it altogether.

Anyways, let me know what you're thinking. Thanks so much!

Your humble anti-clicheist,

Swing Girl


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